Pay It Forward
by MyHeartInMyWords
Summary: "Your debt to me will be paid once you have your first child."


"Katniss?" Peeta ghosts his hand on the top of my shoulder, tentative on how I'm to react to his touch. "Did you hear me? Did you hear what I said?"

"Yes." I tear my eyes from the spot on the wall. "Yes, I did. Did you call Haymitch?" I slip out from under his hand and swoop into the kitchen to hide.

"No..." he says slowly, confused. "Why would I?"

"For dinner," I say matter-of-factly in the most enthusiastic tone I can muster. I know I've never sounded so excited to see Haymitch before, so much that my own voice sounds foreign, but I had to do something to cover up the lump in my throat. "Would you grab the pans from the top shelf?"

"Yeah, sure, Katniss," he folds in a sigh, crossing the floor and opening the shelf door. When he passes me the heavy cast iron pan, he holds on, forcing me to life my eyes up to his. "Katniss, I'm sorry—"

"Don't," I interrupt him, the lump lurching up. With a shake of my head and a shake of my hand, I take the pan and place it on the oven with a loud clang. The sound makes me flinch and I...try to stay strong but I, for goodness _sakes_, unforgivably lose it.

Peeta catches me before I hit the floor in hysterics, but we crumble into the corner of our kitchen anyway.

"She's dead," I finally say, for own well being. "My father's dead, Prim's dead, and now..." My voice cracks before the words leave my lips. "My mother's dead, Peeta." It sounds foreign again, my voice, but this time, instead when I want it to come out as a declaration, when I announce my mother's passing, it sounds like I'm asking Peeta. If it's true.

He doesn't say yes, but his second apology confirms it, and he follows it with a soft kiss into my hair.

It brings me back. Back when my mother used to do the very same thing to me when I was younger.

* * *

I used to talk more. More than I do now. In fact, I had to be told to shut my mouth because I couldn't stop going on about the woods, about hunting, about braids.

"Mom," I called from my bedroom. "Mom, can you do my braid already? Hurry! And can you do the one that splits in two, with the twist instead of the knot? I really like the twist." My legs kicked freely as I sat in front of the mirror, so excited, when my mother walked in, smiling at me.

"Katniss," she said, and in my head it sounds more like she was cooing, but that's probably what it is. It's all in my head.

"Teach me?" I asked her reflection in the mirror as she worked her magic. "Teach me how to braid, Mom! I want to learn!"

"And why is that?" she laughed so musically even though she never did sing very well. Father was the one who made the music with his whistling. I learned that from him, before he passed away, but this braiding, I wanted to learn from her. Just in case. She tenderly presses her lips to the top of my head. "As long as I'm here, I can always do your hair for you, Katniss."

As much as I loved the sound of that promise, I knew, even at such a young age, that it would be broken.

* * *

The burial grounds. It's been some time since I last visited, but I know Prim or Father won't hold me to that sort of promise. They know I always carry them in my thoughts and in my heart; I don't need to see them laying under six feet of soil and patches of grass.

But I'm here now, to lay Mother down right next to them, and nothing makes it such a harder pain to bear to see the rest of your family dead. I crouch down to hug my knees, with a bundle of freshly cut tulips in my white-knuckled hands.

Peeta gives me the space I need, but he sticks around. He always does. And Haymitch, he pays his respects by not taking a swig of the bottle hidden in his coat pocket until later, when we leave. They're all I have left.

"Hey, Catnip." The familiar voice strikes a chord internally, but my face registers no trace of emotion.

I continue to stare into the open pit, with the mound of flowers on top of the casket. "She's dead, Gale," I tell him, but still I sound like I'm trying to convince myself. Hollow or not, I should be convinced by now.

"She did some amazing things—"

"I know," I snap unintentionally.

It doesn't faze Gale. "They're building a wing at the hospital in honor of her, you know," he says. "She's saved how many lives, cured how many sicknesses. Your mom put in so much love and care there."

"She had to put it somewhere," I say, suddenly bitter. I wipe harshly at the tear that falls.

"Listen, I know you're mad, Katniss." He drops down to my level and puts an arm over my shoulders, bringing me into a forced embrace. "You can be mad at me, for leaving. You can be mad at Peeta for picking a _horrible_ casket—"

"Katniss picked it," Peeta cuts in, reigniting the tension between them.

Gale heaves a sigh for his mistake, but continues. "You can be mad at anything you want," he says, "but you cannot be mad at your mom, Katniss. It was her time to go."

I shake my head, and I wring the tulips in my hands once more before I simply lay it near the edge of the grave. "I'm not mad," I argue quietly. "Not at her."

* * *

When we lost Dad, Prim and I lost Mom too.

"Mother?" I called her, now that I had grown a few years. When she didn't answer, I just thought she didn't hear me so I padded down the hallway and called her again. Silence. I listened closely and heard nothing, which made my heart jump to the worst conclusion.

Because I knew what came from deafening silence. When I had found out about Father, people were afraid to tell me, a little girl so used to happiness and whistling and braids. My neighbors kept quiet. Even the dogs roaming around and Prim's cat Buttercup couldn't even give me a cursory hiss. The world went silent when someone died.

"Mom?" Panic reduced my tone to a younger me, squeaky and terrified. "Mom? Are you okay? Where are you?"

"She's over here," Prim said, and I found them both at the foot of the fireplace, staring at the flickering flames. When I stepped forward, my younger sister looked up at me with sadness in her eyes, saying, "Why won't she talk, Katniss? I asked her a question but she won't answer me." She turned to our Mother and asked in a sudden wail, "Why won't you _talk_ to me, Mother?"

Right then, I knew. I understood why Mother had stopped answering my calls to do my hair; I looked just like Father. The dark hair, the seam eyes. She abandoned me in our own house, left me to make my own braids in front of my bedroom mirror. But Prim? It had seemed as though she had finally disconnected from Prim, too, but for reasons I couldn't find. She had always told Prim stories about Father, and how she met him and how she fell in love with him. Any other reason to keep him alive in her mind.

"No," I choked out before Prim could end up like me. Without a mother. "No, you wake up," I demanded, framing my hands around my own Mother's pale face. "You keep it together. For her. That's the least you can do. She needs you."

And for a moment, her eyes flickered just as the fire did, and she nodded. I watched as she put a frail hand over Prim's.

I suppose it was then, when I had told her I didn't need her anymore. I could braid my own hair.

* * *

"Do you still want a baby?"

Peeta nearly falls over from his stool. "Did—you—are—" he stammers.

"I'm asking you, Peeta, if you still want—"

"Yes, yes of course," he stumbles to say, and it seems like he can't quite catch his breath. He scrambles around the table where we're eating dinner, and gathers my hand into his trembling pair. "But," he hesitates, blue eyes trained on mine for any sign of indecision. But my mind's been made up. "You said you don't want any, Katniss. You practically said so in your vows at the toasting."

"So you don't want a child," I state. Maybe I am trying to find a way out of this, but I am not going to be the one to shoot the idea down.

"_Do you?"_ Peeta says accusingly, narrowing his eyes at me. "Or don't you?"

"Peeta, I just asked you two seconds ago—"

"If _I_ wanted a baby, yes, but there's a difference."

"What does it matter?" I deflect. "You want me to say, 'Yes, okay, sure, I'll give you a baby?' Fine, then. Yes, Peeta, I'll have the baby."

He sharply exhales off to the side and knots his brow. "_Sure?_ _Fine?_ Katniss, I don't want you to _give_ me a baby; I want to have _your_ baby, _with_ you."

A chasm suddenly opens in my chest. The sinking feeling spreads, and no matter how much I inhale, I can't seem to fill my lungs. "Why does it sound so…terrifying?" I say just above a whisper. What if I don't love it enough? What if I close it off due to something as simple yet devastating as losing Peeta? What if I end up like Mother?

"You're not ready," Peeta says, rubbing circles with his thumb along the back of my hand. "Maybe someday, but not now." The disappointment dawns on him, but still he forces a half-hearted grin.

I drop my head and my hand, refusing to let emotions take hold. This is going to happen. Maybe mothering is like learning how to swim—just jump right in and you either sink or survive. "And if I changed my mind?" I say, but he does that sharp exhale again and I purse my lips. Frustration takes shape in form a frown on my face so I exit the kitchen, not knowing where I'm going.

Peeta matches my strides and I make it to the door of our bedroom before he takes me by the elbow. "Why?" he asks genuinely. "Why, all of the sudden?"

I have no rational answer. And I have no intention of telling him my irrational one, so I press my lips to his instead. "I love you, Peeta," I whisper, and I wonder if he hears the pleading laced into it.

"You know I love you," he echoes back as he rests his forehead against my own. He caresses my cheek, sweeps a thumb across the plane of it, and kisses me again. "I want whatever it is you want."

"So if I don't want kids?" I test him.

"Fine," he answers without skipping a beat.

My throat clenches a bit. "And if I do?"

Relieving happiness washes over his face and he chuckles in a lighter attitude, "Fine." The answer's the same, but I can see it in his eyes that he's hopeful. The real question is left unanswered—why in the world would I want to bring a child into this world of mine—when Peeta kisses me again, and undoes the first button of my blouse.

I reel him farther into the bedroom and close the door behind us.

* * *

I had lived through the Hunger Games. I had even survived the Quarter Quell, and the Rebellion. But even then, no more than three sentences were exchanged between me and my Mother in a single conversation.

When Prim died, I was sure the ties between us, whatever was left, were severed. I went…home to District Twelve, she went to work at some hospital. She went one way, and I the other. Lonely months had passed, and countless meals were spent alone. Peeta and I were just trying to become familiar with each other again, patching holes someone else had made, but I nevertheless felt alone.

How could she just leave me? We were all we had left of our family and she decided to head in a direction opposite from mine. On purpose. She had made the move to abandon me completely, all because she couldn't bear to look at me. While I was broken, shattered from the inside out. I remember thinking: Is this what she felt like when she lost her husband?

"Why don't you call her up?" Peeta proposed one of the days he decided to check up on me. Haymitch had made his rounds the last week, and Greasy Sae the week before, and now it was Peeta's turn. He had learned how to keep the tremors out of his hands through months of therapy, so he was stable enough to monitor another less-than-stable survivor.

"Who?" I pretended to wonder, but I laid the sarcasm on too thick. There's no other female figure in my life that deserved a phone call. Prim's gone, Madge disappeared. Annie and Johanna, I hardly knew.

"I have the number if you want it," Peeta persisted.

"So do I," I flatly replied. "But I've gone through years without her speaking to me; I'm used to it."

"This isn't if _she_ wants to talk to _you_." The heavy handset clattered against the dialing mount when Peeta carried the phone to me. "This is if _you_ want to talk to _her_. Come on, Katniss. I know you miss her. You talk about her in your sleep."

I scowled at him as he proceeded to dial the hospital's number for me, and shoved the receiver into my ear when it started to ring. On the fourth ring, Peeta decided it was time for him to leave, to give me some space, but my hand shot out for his forearm.

"Hello?"

My hand tightened. "Mom?" I said, slightly alarmed as I looked to Peeta. "Is that you?"

"Forgive me," the voice answered regretfully. "Who am I speaking to?"

In a blunder, I sputtered, "Who am I? This—this is…Katniss."

"Katniss…" I listened to the voice repeat my name over and over again with ease. I realized then that this wasn't my mother on the other end of the line. "And your last name?"

"Everdeen." My grip on Peeta thawed and fell lifelessly to my side. But he chose to stay anyway when my shoulders deflated, and gave me a half-smile that was supposed to cheer me up or something.

"Oh, of course! Katniss!" the voice realized brightly. "I've heard so much about you; your mother just won't stop talking about you! Here, I'll go get her."

"She's…talking about me?" I said out loud, astonishment clear in my voice. Peeta's spirits lifted as well, as if just seeing me be anything other than stoic was progress. As I was put on hold, I repeated it again, to Peeta this time. "My mother talked about me. She didn't forget about me."

"Why wouldn't she?" Peeta said. "You've saved lives like she has. Well, maybe not in the same way, but you did save the world from implosion."

A skeptical chuckle bubbled from my chest, and it was contagious to Peeta. And before we knew it, our hands were intertwined with each other's, like we used to.

A subtle click came from the other end and I froze. With shifty eyes I tried to imagine the person breathing steadily into the phone, holding it securely to her ear with two hands, nervously waiting.

I had enough of the waiting.

Hairs standing on end, I shakily breathed, "Mom?"

"_Katniss_." Once again, in my head, my name sounded so magically musical than it actually did.

* * *

"Sweetheart—"

"Quit calling me that," I snap at Haymitch.

"Take it easy, Katniss," Peeta says as he rubs my sore lower back. "You have to give him some credit for not giving a flask as a gift."

"Thought about it," Haymitch mumbles, knowing it would get to me. "Well? Do you want it or not? I'm not going to stay here forever; you, of all people, should know I don't do baby showers." He gives a shake to the brown paper bag he's holding out.

"Thank you," I say quietly, my hormones laying off enough to allow me to be civil towards the closest thing I have to a father figure. When I accept the gift, Haymitch just grunts, but the three of us know it translates into "You're welcome, sweetheart."

"You look like you could use a drink," Peeta laughs, ushering our old mentor to the refreshment table while I deliver the gift to its designated area at the party.

I pass glad faces along the way. People graze a touch at my elbow when I hobble by. They congratulate me, wonder if we've set up the nursery already, ask me if I know if it's a boy or girl. And when they do, I just smile half-heartedly, not knowing what to say.

Thank you? Do we even need a nursery? How should I know what gender my baby is? It kicks me a lot, so does that make it a boy, or a feisty girl? Whichever it is, it's giving me a hard time. I have constant back pain, my ankles and feet have swollen, and there's never enough dill bread and sardines around the house. The preliminary morning sickness, ballooned belly, and the hot flashes go without saying…And I'm supposed to love you, you troublesome child?

I make it to the presents table and take a deep breath. In a blind effort to compose myself, I tear into Haymitch's gift to find a blue pacifier and a handwritten note. Something in me appreciates the card, because the legible handwriting indicates how he decided to remain sober as he wrote it.

_Hope it's a boy—they seem to be much more level-headed, and for your sake, that's what you need._

I scoff and laugh when I look over my shoulder to find Haymitch raising a glass to me before he pours it down his gullet. To him, I simply nod.

"Looking…round there, Catnip."

"Shut it, Gale," I snap once again, holding my stomach insecurely. "What are you doing here?"

"To see you like this," he teases, and I don't appreciate it. He reaches the brink of my patience when he reaches out to lay a hand over my bulbous belly. "And to make sure I'm on your list of godparents for little…" He lifts his eyes to mine, fishing for a name.

"I don't know what to call it yet," I say. Calling it an "it" sounds heartless, but I never really thought it through. I thought I'd give that responsibility to Peeta, since through this entire pregnancy, since the beginning of it, I never really thought this through.

"Well, whoever they'll be, I want to be a godfather. I'll spoil you, and your mother will hate me for it," he speaks to my unborn child. "Just like all the other things she hates me for."

"I don't hate you," I argue. "I hate that you left. I hate that everyone I care about eventually leaves me somehow, but I won't let myself hate the person themselves." I flash Gale a sympathetic smile.

"I knew you have nothing but love inside you," Peeta suddenly says as he emerges from the bustle of the party. He wraps his arm over my ever-expanding waist and pulls me in for a kiss, knowing full well that Gale's not two feet from us.

"Peeta," Gale acknowledges.

"Gale," my husband replies to my best friend. "Thanks for coming. Wasn't sure if the invitation made it to your District." They shake hands, and for all I know, it's for my benefit. To humble me.

Two individuals who wanted nothing but to not talk to each other because of how uncomfortable they were. Because they were on different terms, sometimes at war. But one of them became the bigger person and forced a reunion, no matter the clashing outcome. At least they tried.

* * *

"She'll be right with you." Finally, I could put a face to the voice who had answered the phone when I had called the hospital. She was middle-aged, had stringy grey hair coming out from under her nurse hat, and had crows-feet induced from too much smiling. All she did was smile at me, from the very moment I stepped foot inside the hospital where my mother worked.

I felt like if I didn't return the favor to this stranger who seemed to know me so well, I would've been rude. So I smiled back, and was rewarded with a pinch on the cheek. I hated Peeta for not tagging along.

"Here she is," the grey-haired, smiley woman sang from around the corner of the hallway. I remember myself stiffen at the announcement. All these questions swam through my head: When was the last time I saw her? Will she recognize me? Will she be happy to see me, or will she break down in tears?

I braced myself, but I had never expected to see my mother, old and weary, dressed in a light blue patient gown and balancing her weight on a cane as she walked. Was she not a nurse here?

Despite my confusion, I got what I had expected. She did recognize me; she did cry at the sight of me, but through the tears she beamed.

My mouth opened but nothing fell out. I just strode up to her and embraced her tiny body as water welled up in my eyes, blurring my vision. _Don't blink_, I remember telling myself so I wouldn't cry. But also because I was afraid that this was just another dream of mine, and Peeta would be on the other end listening to me call out, "Mom."

We were herded into a private patient room, and it took me a while to realize that this was my mother's room. The steely gray walls were unsettling, but she made do with what she was given. She had the blinds slightly open so some light flooded in, and a neatly folded blanket was poised atop a rocking chair in the corner next to a ball of yarn. Mother limped over to the chair and slowly eased herself into it.

I could see just how much she had aged. She must've been as old as the nurse in the hallway, but there was still some color left in her light hair.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand," I began as I took a seat at the window. "I thought you were a doctor here."

Mother breathed a small laugh. "I still am," she reassured me. "But only for minor injuries now. Cuts, sores, sometimes burns."

I nodded. "Then why are you living in the hospital?"

"Because I'm getting old, Katniss," she said. "They treat old people well here."

"Then come home," I blurted out without a thought. Having already said it, I reached out and held my mother's hand for the first time in what had seemed like centuries. "Mother, why don't you just stay with Peeta and me, and you can work at the clinic they built there. You'd like it."

She flinched back, but tried to chuckle it off. "Katniss, no," she said warily.

"Why not?"

"You know very well why not." Her breath hitched at the end, and she bit at her trembling bottom lip. "I have to stay here," she said. "People need me here."

She didn't need to stay here and sew stitches and wrap bandages. She didn't want to go back to District 12. To see how empty it had become now that she had lost half of her family. More than that, if she had already taken into account the day I had told her I didn't need her.

"You don't need me, do you, Katniss." She didn't question it. She knew. Or at least, she assumed. That I didn't need to be taken care of. That I was doing just fine after living through a war, after watching my sister die a gruesome death. That my living alone at our old haunted home was no different from living with her.

But it was. The walls felts so much colder, and I would hear things in the most silent of nights. The security of knowing that my mother was just down the hall, perched in front of the fireplace and staring aimlessly into the flames was enough for me. Taking care of someone else other than me was much less painful than the solitude that I had repeatedly wished for.

I dropped my eyes to the tiled flooring and watched as the decorative speckles turn into a watery mess.

"Everyone misses you," I said just as I felt my throat closing. We both knew that was a lie because there was no more "everyone" back at District 12. Most of the population had died in the bombing. "Our clinic isn't the same without you. Buttercup could use someone who actually likes him. A—and…" I swallowed thickly.

"I can't," she said.

"You _can't_," I asked, my voice raised through my tightened airway, "or you _won't_?"

"Katniss, I—"

"No!" I abruptly wailed, and all the walls came down. "Mom, you can't. You can't stay here. I—I miss you. And I do, I do need you! You can't do this to me…not again. I'm—I'm sorry."

"Oh…" she gasped, and tried to collect me in her thin arms, but I collapsed on the floor next to her, sobbing into her lap. "It wasn't your fault, Katniss. I'm the one to blame; I wasn't a good mother."

"I tried to be strong for all of us," I said unevenly. "For you, for Prim." Just the name sets me off again.

"And you were. You still are, I can see that." She smoothed my hair, along the braids of hers that I had tried to replicate. "You've grown so much. I just wish could've opened my eyes to see that earlier. I've missed so much."

"Then come home."

"I can't," she repeated again, only more remorsefully. "Sweetheart, I can't. I'm—I'm sick…"

"What?"

"That's why I can't leave here. They're treating me for something we can't possibly do anything about at home. I've been sick. For a long time." Her palm framed my cheek and she looked at me tearfully. "My dear, sweet Katniss…there's nothing I want more to turn back time and be the mother I should've been."

The tears pricked at my eyes again so I refrained from blinking when I looked at her with the utmost regret. All this time, how could I not see it? I was too blinded by the resentment for my mother abandoning me to notice she was wasting away from the inside out. I could've taken care of her better, through her psychological and physical ailments. I could've been a better daughter.

"I'm sorry, Mom," I said between sobs. "I don't know how you'll ever forgive me. I owe you so much."

"Nonsense," she said. "You owe me nothing. The burden you carry? You'll find a way to pay that debt you have in your heart. I'm just grateful to have someone left to love. You'll see, Katniss, when you love someone like I love you. Your debt to me will be paid once you have your first child."

* * *

"Katniss, push!"

A scream tears through me, loud enough, I'm sure, to be heard across the District.

"Come on, keep pushing, keep breathing…"

"Push or breathe?" I bark at the nurse as I grab onto anything that I can crush in my hands.

"I'm right here," Peeta assures me, catching my flailing grip and taking on majority of the vice. "Come on, you can do this."

"_No!_" I cry in a shriek. "Peeta, I can't! I'm not ready!" Another splitting pain flares through me. I'm doused in sweat and my eyes strain to keep open. In a panic, I begin to hyperventilate. "What if this all goes wrong? What if I—" I stop short to bite my lip hard enough to probably draw blood. I'm suddenly afraid I might just pass out on this table, with all these strangers watching, with my legs spread open.

"Our child is going to be loved," he insists firmly. "You listen to me, Katniss. There's nothing you and I won't do for this baby."

"Push!" Yet another scream rips through me and I dig my nails into flesh, breaking skin. "I see the head!"

It's a blur what comes shortly after. Screams that I'm not sure are my own flood my ears until I hear nothing but a white piercing sound. The fear from a thousand Games can't possibly compare to what I'm feeling before the pain reaches its peak. Blinding pain surges through me, and between hazy, frantic blinks I can see Peeta's hurting just as much. His mouth is moving but I can't hear him clearly. In fact, all the noises mumble together, and the air gets thicker and thicker to breathe.

_Something's wrong_, I think I hear someone say. _Katniss? Katniss, can you hear me?_

And then, the pain stops. My body goes flaccid and my grip on Peeta's hand liquefies. Everything grows foggier. The piercing sound has stopped but I can still hear my heart throb slowly in my head.

"Where is he?" I say groggily, my voice raspy and throat raw. I don't even know if it's a boy, but now I know what my hopes are. "Peeta?"

I feel around for him in the cloudy room but I come up empty. The room grows cold, and I want to draw my knees back together but they're lifeless. I call for Peeta again.

"I'm right here," he says quietly. "Katniss, I am right here." His voice is tight, as if the birthing isn't over. He's stuck in pain while I'm suddenly empty. Hollow. It's so quiet now.

"Where is he?" I ask again, and I try to sit up.

Peeta pushes back the hair matted on my face, insisting I rest on the table, with his jaw clenched and a deep dent between his brows. He places a shaky kiss on my forehead and he lingers there. His uneven breath seizes me.

"I'm sorry," he chokes out.

Tentatively, I turn my head from Peeta and towards the nurse. She's crying from what I can tell through dazed eyes. She steps aside to grab a towel and I see my baby. Lying so small and helpless. She's about to cover him with a blanket when I stop her.

"Let me hold him," I say, my weak arms held out. The nurse opens her mouth to protest. "Please. I want to hold him. Just once." I don't have to look at Peeta to know he's given a nod of permission.

So I watch her carefully swath the chubby, quiet baby in a bloodied towel, and carry him over to me. It's surreal, the weight of him when I cradle the bundle in my hands. He has dark hair, my dark hair, and his father's nose. I wish I could see his eyes to see what color they are, but something in me knows that they're as bright and blue as Peeta's. I know it.

"Hi Sweetheart," I say to him, and I know better than expect to hear him reply in a cry, a giggle, or even a gurgle. I finger at the little cheek pad. He's so peaceful. "You're so beautiful."

"He is," Peeta speaks up, laying a gentle hand on top of our boy's head. "Just like his mother."

I can't tear my eyes away for some reason, so I decide to say, "Thank you." It's a whisper, but it's all I can manage without breaking down. "You could've left me at five weeks. You could've left me at two months, or you could've left at six months. But you stayed so I could see you. To hold you. To feel you." Carefully, I peel back the towel. "To see your little fingers and toes. To kiss your forehead, and your nose, and to tell you I love you. I'm so thankful."

I realize now what my mother meant that day I saw her at the hospital.

_"Your debt to me will be paid once you have your child."_

Sleep peacefully, Sweetheart.


End file.
